He’d started wading toward the rungs when a flurry of loud splashes startled him. It was bodies, lots of bodies, pouring in from the hole. Good thing he’d started moving when he did, or he would have been buried beneath them.
The torrent of rotten bodies put some pep in his step, and he went up the slimy rungs in a flash. He stood in the tunnel, about four feet above the waist-deep water, watching as the dead poured in and piled up. Some were getting to their feet and coming toward him, but they were unable to get in the tunnel. He was safe, so he turned and set about finding a way out.
He walked for hours in pitch blackness, slimed walls his guide. Every so often a faint glow came from above. He was going to kill that fat bastard who’d pushed him in the hole, and with none of the bullshit that Banjo liked to employ. Weed was no muss and no fuss, just get the job done. Shit, when all was said and done, he’d probably have to kill the other two Angels as well. His brothers would back him once they heard what had happened. Then…well, then he guessed it would be back to partying until he died.
Finally he came to an exit that wasn’t bolted shut or too heavy to lift. He stepped out of the large concrete pipe and into a very wide drainage ditch. He walked up the sloping sides of the giant concrete trough, thinking only of how bone-fucking tired he was. Even his murderous rage took a backseat to his desire that a Denny’s, or a similar such establishment, should magically appear before him. He would blow the devil for some hot coffee and scrambled eggs right now.
He crested the rim of the concrete ditch and chuckled as he shook his head from side to side. “Sumabitch. If I ain’t the luckiest old fart there is.” He must’ve walked in a hundred circles down there in the dark, because he was looking at the back of the parking garage.
Weed walked under the garage to the edge of the giant hole, coming full circle from the previous night. He found the bodies of his brothers as well as those of that fat bastard and Jeeter. No sign of Jack or Banjo. He looked up at the garage, his old eyes two balls of wrinkles as he squinted in the morning light, considering things slow and careful.
His ultra-mellow nature was a product of old age, drugs, and alcohol, but mostly a diagnosed personality disorder. He couldn’t remember which one, it’d been so long ago. He was only five when they had him tested, then sent away. He studied that little Shangri-la them squares were building for themselves as he thought things through.
Weed walked all the long way back to the Costco to check on things. No sign of the other two. If Jack were alive and still in the area, he would make himself known, and Weed knew right where that would be. So it was on to plan B.
He ditched his cut and found a nice long-sleeve sweatshirt to cover his tats. He spent thirty minutes searching the entire warehouse for a suitable chapeau for a man of his years. He found a well-worn ball cap that fit him. Off came the silver skulls, the chromed drive chain, the Maltese crosses and swastikas, each piece with a damn fine story behind its acquisition. He stuffed all his jewelry in the hidey-hole he found for his cut. Shit, he felt light as air. He’d never realized how heavy it all was. He looked himself over in the mirror.
“Francis Fucking Burwell.” He winced at the sound of his birth name, minus the expletive in the middle, of course. “You look like an asshole if ever I’ve seen one, old man Burwell.” He chuckled, a deep grumbly sound. Maybe he would go by Frank when he introduced himself to the squares over at Shangri-la. He went back to the center of the Costco to look for his bag.
Before anything else transpired, as soon as was humanly possible, he needed to spark up a blunt something fierce.
I sincerely hope that you have enjoyed Euphoria-Z. If you would like to be notified when the next book of the series becomes available, please visit www.LukeAhearn.com.
You can also contact me on Facebook, Amazon, or Goodreads.
Luke Ahearn